


The Family Business

by counteragent



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Community: spn_summergen, Gen, Season/Series 06
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-03
Updated: 2013-01-03
Packaged: 2017-11-23 11:39:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,135
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/621720
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/counteragent/pseuds/counteragent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam considered this Dean. He was 17, maybe 18. Old enough to contribute to the hunt, young enough to take Sam’s lead. In short, an asset. </p>
<p>(This is set very early in the sixth season of SPN, around the timeframe of “The Third Man.”)</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Family Business

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mandraco](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mandraco/gifts).



“Sam, watch out!”

Sam felt Dean slam into his side an instant before the world flashed white. A thunderous _CRACK_ shook the walls of the vacation cottage where they’d cornered the warlock. Dean was suddenly dead weight across his side and shoulder. Sam shook him off, using the momentum to slash forward with the machete.  His instinct served him well; his first sight as his vision cleared was the warlock’s decapitated head hitting the ground. Sam kicked the still-standing corpse backward, the better to avoid an arterial spray shower. It hit with a meaty thud, twitched, and was still. He bent to retrieve the warlock’s staff from his slack fingers.

Behind him, Dean moaned. Good, he was alive. Sam placed the staff on the bed and wiped the blade of his machete on the coverlet, taking care to remove the gore between serrations. Sam hoped Dean’s injuries weren’t severe. Cleanup on this job would be a bitch with Dean down for the count.

“Sammy? Dad?” Dean said slowly, and Sam turned, sheathing his machete and pulling his gun in one motion.

Before him stood a creature that was unmistakably Dean-like, although smaller and—Sam looked again—younger. Dean’s clothes hung loose on its frame. Sam gestured with his gun.

“Whoa, OK! Take it easy, buddy.” The Dean thing was fully aware now, any residual disorientation flushed away by adrenaline. It lifted its hands and backed off quickly. “I’m human, I’m a hunter, I’m unarmed.”

Sam held his fire. This Dean had apparently cased Sam as a hunter within seconds, or at least figured that only a hunter or civilian would be worth his breath. A creature impersonating Dean would take the same tack, but it wouldn’t pretend not to know Sam. For that matter, it would likely take Dean’s full adult form. Sam could and would verify this Dean’s humanity, but his working hypothesis was that the warlock’s last gambit had transformed his brother into a younger version.

“Are you going to put that down any time soon, man? I just wanna figure out what happened.”

Sam considered this Dean. He was 17, maybe 18. Slim, absent his later bulk, but tall and quick. Reflexes unblemished by memories of hell or substance abuse. Old enough to contribute to the hunt, young enough to take Sam’s lead. In short, an asset. He lowered his gun slowly, flicking on the safety as loudly as possible.

His lips lifted into a smile. “Hey, Dean. It’s me, Sam.”

 

***

The warlock’s body—both pieces of it--burned rank in the clearing behind the cottage. The corpse was so fresh that even burying the burnt remains was a fair amount of work.

Dean paced out the grave shape, marking it in the dirt. “So you think this is permanent? Or is Old Me gonna reappear any second now?”

Sam handed him a shovel, taking in Dean’s stiff stance. There wasn’t any harm in telling him the truth—the sooner Dean accepted his junior status, the sooner they could hunt as a functional team.

“Probably permanent. Warlock’s dead. Magical artifacts are usually one-way tickets without their maker.”

Dean grunted and began shoveling. Sam pressed, “You don’t sound particularly worried about that.”

Dean flashed him a look Sam couldn’t decipher. “Yeah, well, neither do you.”

“I’ve been working with a bunch of hunters lately. Their leader, Samuel, can figure almost anything out. Got cures at his compound for things I’d never thought possible.”

Dean was listening intently, his shoulders tight with effort while they dug. The grave was taking shape quickly, efficiently. Sam had no real interest in “curing” this tractable yet capable partner, but Dean didn’t need to know that.

“We’ll take the staff with us, if you want. Even if we can’t reverse the spell, it would make a great weapon. I found out two cases ago that a baby shapeshifter is a lot easier to kill than its daddy.” Sam chuckled.

The rhythm of Dean’s digging faltered, but when Sam looked up he had resumed shoveling. “Yeah, maybe it’ll work on monsters,” was all Dean said.

They were filling the grave back in when Dean spoke again. “So…”

Dean was considering his words, his eyes on the dirt. Sam saw the telltale flex of his fingers as he shifted his grip on the shovel without purpose. Of course: Dean wanted to know about John.

“…who is this Samuel guy?” Huh. Well, Sam didn’t mind putting off _that_ conversation if Dean preferred it.

“Actually, he’s our grandfather.”

“Our _what_?”

***

The recent demise of Sam’s car served a practical purpose, as the appearance of the Impala slowed the flow of Dean’s questions to a less irritating trickle. Sam didn’t tire much anymore, but the effort required to respond to Dean’s inquiry during the three-mile hike back to the car was a low-grade annoyance he could do without.

Info on the Campbells had taken up nearly a mile; Dean made Sam recite the location of their compounds two or three times once he’d accepted that sweet Mary Campbell had actually been a hunter heiress. Dean asked the most questions about Samuel, moving on to other topics only when Sam mentioned that they were due to meet up with him tonight outside of Boston.

The Q and A about John, when it finally came, had been particularly disappointing. While Sam’s faith in Winchester emotional reticence had been well placed—Dean’s only outward show of grief had been a grim nod and some particularly vicious stabs of the warlock’s staff, which he was using as a walking stick—the news of John’s death hadn’t shut him up as expected. Dean continued to ask about all the hunters in their network, the status of their safe houses, their current credit card scams.

Sam approved of Dean’s professional focus, but by the time they hit the car Sam was reconsidering door number two—knocking Dean out and leaving him with a canteen and some cash.  Sam’d gotten used to quiet in his head. Sam supposed he’d adjust; he’d get better responding to this Dean with practice, just as he had with the older version.

“See, she’s here, like I said,” Sam’s smile was half for Dean, half self-congratulatory.  He’d bothered to anthropomorphize the car. 

“Hey,” Dean said (to the car, of course) and Sam thought again that his voice was lighter than Sam remembered. Less raspy. He wondered idly if Dean’s post-hell body had somehow borne an imprint of some of the screaming his soul had done in hell. Unlikely; Sam’s voice was normal.

By now Dean had finished stowing the weapons in the trunk, and appeared satisfied that this was the genuine article. “You wouldn’t run for anyone but family, would you, baby?” Sam caught him saying over the creak of the door hinges.

Dean bared his teeth in a grin at Sam as he slid into the passenger seat. Dean must be comfortable to let Sam drive without a fight. Or maybe Dean saw Sam in John’s place, now. That would be convenient.

“Next up is a black dog outside of Portland, Maine.” Sam said, no preamble. How John would say it. Dean pursed his lips and nodded, his eyes on the windshield.

Sam started the car.

***

Samuel’s meeting place outside of Boston was a castle-themed motel off the turnpike. They were a few hours early, so Dean offered to pick up Chinese for dinner while Sam unloaded the car.

Sam was halfway through his takeout cashew chicken when he realized the extent of his miscalculation. The motel room was beginning to shift and blur around him, his laptop screen bending in and out of shape. Sam lifted his eyes to look out the window, trying to find the horizon line despite the oncoming night. The motel’s neon shield and sword sign divided in two and re-collapsed as his eyes fought to focus. The glowing shapes trailed streaks of pink and yellow light across his field of vision.

Sam knew his legs would give if he tried to stand. Better to stay seated and uninjured for when the effects of the horse tranq wore off.  He’d been undone by Winchester habit, always leaving the heavy drugs in the same corner of the trunk. Of course Dean had known where to find them.

“Hey, Dean.”  Sam turned slowly to where Dean had been eating on the bed, legs outstretched and one hand under the pillow that served as his erstwhile tray. The hand was undoubtedly clutching Dean’s favorite glock. His other brandished chopsticks with careful nonchalance. Sam couldn’t resist making sure he had it right this time.

“How come you haven’t asked anything about me?” Sam’s voice was only marginally slurred.

Dean raised his head, then narrowed his eyes coolly. “Like I’d want to know anything _you’d_ tell me about Sammy.”

Sam nodded and slumped down on the table.

***

Sam awoke to the glow of the warlock’s staff and the sound of his grandfather reciting Latin. He cracked his eyes open beneath lowered lashes and saw Samuel seated in the corner, reading from Sam’s computer screen. The warlock’s staff responded to his words, glowing and dimming with his cadence.  He was clearly practicing, repeating the same passages in succession. Sam was bound to a chair in the center of the room, inside a ritual circle. Dean was setting up a low makeshift altar in front of Sam, complete with artifacts, herbs, and candles. Sam had been out for a while, apparently.

The full situation was a bit surprising, all things considered. Sam knew he was different since the pit; clearly this Dean felt it, too. Sam had been expecting to wake up to a light torture session. But it looked like Dean and Samuel were skipping the niceties of interrogation.

He tested his bonds. Ropes bound his hands behind his back, secured his torso to the chair, and pinned his legs separately to each chair leg.  The chair was flimsy, could be broken to good effect if he’d been left alone or if he were going to have the element of surprise. Given how nearby Dean was moving, he kind of doubted it. Sam began the painful process of dislocating his left wrist.

“You didn’t have to tie me up,” Sam said. He opened his eyes fully, and sure enough, he had Dean’s attention within a second. “I would have helped you and Samuel try and break the spell on you.” 

Dean held his gaze, then snorted and shook his head as if to clear it. “You and I both know that’s not what’s going on here. This isn’t about if I’ve hit puberty. This is about when you stopped being Sam.”

Playing dumb was never Sam’s game anyway. He switched tactics. “Even if you can recreate the warlock’s spell, turn back my clock—you know it’s the same as killing me, right?”

“Ya think? Way I see it, this is pure mercy. If you ever were Sam, it’ll cure you. If not, it’ll probably knock you out while I slit your throat.” Dean’s eyes were steady but Sam caught the slight catch of lower lip on Dean’s top teeth. One of his tells.

“You believe that? I may seem different to you, but Dean. I’ve been through hell, literally. I jumped into the pit with Lucifer riding shotgun. Of course I’m fucked up. But that doesn’t mean I deserve to be _erased_.”

He made sure to let his eyes tear up a little, flared his nostrils and dipped his chin. If Sammy was what Dean wanted, Sammy was what he’d give him. At least until his wrist was free.

Dean’s face was a mask, set in rigid lines by force of will.

“I’m still Sam. I’m still your brother.”

Sam actually wasn’t expecting the punch to the gut. Dean leaned in, the mask broken and his face twisted with emotion. “The man I was died today. Sam would have wanted him back, whatever it took. I know my brother, and you ain’t him.”

Sam met Dean’s gaze with narrowed eyes, all pretense dropped. He’d forgotten how uncomplicated teenage Dean was. You were family, or you weren’t. Dean turned back toward his rune designs slowly, his head moving before his eyes broke contact. Sam fought a laugh at the stare-down.

Samuel finished his recitation, apparently satisfied when the staff’s glow became constant, pulsing slightly as if containing a living force that was struggling to escape.  He stood and walked over to inspect Dean’s work.

“That’s real good, Dean,” Samuel said, and Dean straightened up to stand by his side, standing taller than he had a moment before. Sam had been on the right track with him after all. 

“Hey, Sam. I’m really sorry about this.”  Samuel said, his expression sincere.

Sam felt bones on his left wrist finally give way, and hoped his pained face seemed pissed when he said, “I just fucking bet.”  Sam fought a groan as he worked it out of the rope slowly and painfully. He kept talking. “So much for the family business.”

“I know this is a crap situation, but boy. You’re not right inside. It’s been obvious for a while. Before Dean here called me, I didn’t think there was anything we could do about it. Hell, I thought I may have to put you down myself one day.

“The good news is I think I can control the process. We won’t take any more years off than we need to—you can even choose, as long as it’s before the pit.”

The pulsing light from the staff gave Samuel a side-show look, lighting up half his face and casting the other side in darkness. Dean stood further back, his cocky stance undermined by wide eyes and a drawn brow. Sam wrenched his wrist back in its socket, hanging his head to cover up his reaction.

“Fine! Fine, I don’t wanna live like this anymore either.” He loosened at the knot on his right hand, his left wrist throbbing but doing its job.

“You’re right. Something is off inside me, something is different.” Both hands were free now, and it would be short work to reach the knife in his boot, but not while they were staring at him.

Sam raised his head, letting the unshed tears of physical pain glitter in his eyes. Sam played his ace. If this didn’t get them off his back, nothing would. “Make me the Sammy he remembers.”

Samuel hesitated, then nodded and turned to Dean. “Light all the candles and the herb pots. The fire needs to be as uniform as possible and last throughout the ritual, so do it quickly.”

Dean snapped his mouth shut and set to work. Samuel turned away to bring the laptop closer. Neither met Sam’s eyes, which suited Sam just fine. He was currently working the tip of his knife under the ropes binding his right leg, slicing them just enough so they’d hold their shape until he could wrench his limbs free. By the time Dean had all the pots burning, Sam had doctored the ropes on both legs and had slid the knife upward through the ropes on his torso, poised with its blade outward.

Samuel repositioned himself to the right of the altar just outside the circle. He placed the butt of the staff inside it. Dean awkwardly held up the laptop in Samuel’s line of sight. Sam barely contained a smirk. Their positions were both undignified and difficult to defend.

Samuel began the chant. Sam counted to ten, then sliced through the ropes binding his torso. His hand came around in one continuous motion, flinging the knife at Samuel’s throat. Sam hadn’t really expected it to connect—although he had to give Dean points for blocking it with the MacBook—but it did give him enough time to lurch free of his leg bonds and stand. No sooner was he up than he was ducking to avoid a face full of laptop as Dean turned his makeshift shield into a bludgeon.

Sam caught Dean by the shoulder as Dean swung through, pairing the move with a leg sweep. Dean deftly turned the fall into a roll, and Sam knew he’d be back up with a gun in half a second, but at that point Sam was catching the business end of the staff in both hands as Samuel swung for a home run.

Sam’s left wrist flooded with pain, but he hung on, pulling Samuel forward after the staff. As planned, the motion brought Samuel between Sam and Dean. Dean shot into the ceiling at the last second with a curse. Sam tackled Samuel like a linebacker. Samuel hit hard; his head made a ripe-melon _thunk_ and the bulk of Sam’s weight landed on his ribs. He was down for the count, which was good, because no sooner had Sam rolled off him with the staff in his hands than Dean was goddamn _shooting_ at him again.

The bullet grazed Sam’s shoulder; Dean hadn’t been aiming to kill. More fool him. Sam jerked more than the hit deserved, and, as intended, Dean paused to take stock. Sam swept the staff in an upward arc, batting at Dean’s gun. He connected; Dean dropped it with a cry of pain. Sam rose, catching Dean under the jaw on the backswing.  Dean’s head snapped up and he staggered backward. Sam kicked out, and Dean toppled. The twenty extra pounds of muscle he’d have needed to counter the force of Sam’s blow were missing from Dean’s teenage frame.

The staff in Sam’s hands began to shudder and glow brighter. He was going to have to destroy it to stop the spell, but first things first.  Sam spared a brief thought for his Dean as he bent to retrieve the gun.  This one couldn’t be trusted to grow up to become him. Too bad.

Dean groaned and raised his head. His face paled, his lips shaping a _no_ of denial as Sam aimed between his eyes.

Sam’s finger tightened on the trigger just as the world exploded in white.

***

“Sammy? Sammy can you hear me?”

Sam felt like he’d been run over by a truck. Well, fine, he couldn’t really claim to have had that pleasure (but with a Winchester lifestyle he figured it was only a matter of time). This was pretty bad, though. This was PT all morning, grave digging all night, and Dean daring him to drink a couple of shots of whiskey as the burning bones choked his lungs with ash. Or rather, this was the morning after all that, with Dean shaking him awake and an algebra test looming in 3rd period. Less than awesome, basically.

Dean was hard to ignore, his hand warm on Sam’s cheek and his fingers at the pulse point in his neck. Fantastic. Apparently he was out of it enough to need a pulse check. Sam tried to remember why, how and when, but all he remembered was that Dean ate all the Eggos this morning, leaving him with the stale Lucky Charms.

“Lemme alone, fucker,” Sam mumbled, because Eggo thieves didn’t deserve proper nouns.

“Oh thank god, Sammy.”

Eggo thieves that sounded scared out of their minds deserved names, however. “Dean. I’m OK, Dean.”

Sam opened his eyes. Dean was staring down at him, face swelling with a recent injury. Sam’s chest flooded with warmth at Dean’s expression. On anyone else it would look angry as hell, but on Dean it meant _don’t scare me like that_ and _I’m going to kill every last fucking one of them_ and _nothing matters like you do_. It seemed like it had been a long time since he’d seen it. Which was weird, ‘cause Dad was letting Sam help out on hunts now, where Dean wore that expression so much it was practically a uniform.

Sam wasn’t exactly sure why he smiled at Dean. “Are you gonna let me up? I gotta piss.”

Dean shifted aside marginally, but caught Sam in an awkward partial hug before letting him stand. Sam returned it, because if Dean was hugging, things were worse than they appeared. He was going to get payback for the rough kiss Dean dropped on the top of his head, though. Sam was a scrawny thirteen, not _five_ , for chrissake.

“Did it work? Is it him?” An unfamiliar voice cut through Sam’s indignation, and Sam whipped around, fists clenched in the absence of a weapon. He quickly took in the remains of a ritual circle and an altar with lit candles and smoking herb pots.

Dean was still looking at Sam, apparently unconcerned by the presence of a huge bald man _with a glowing wizard’s staff_ and the fact that they were not in the same motel they’d been in this morning. Or even five minutes ago.

“Dean, what the fu—“ Sam started, but Dean cut him off with a squeeze to his shoulder as he turned to the man.

“Yeah, it’s him. This is definitely my geek excuse for a little brother. Old Me musta been senile, because I can just _tell_.”

The man chuckled, an overly familiar sound for a stranger. “Hire a teenager while they still know everything, huh?” At Dean’s look, he quickly amended, “Oh, I believe you. Just wish I had half the confidence I did at your age, is all. I’d feel a whole lot better about this, that’s for sure.”

The man raised the staff above his head, where its light shone like a baleful moon.

“Sam, watch out!” Dean yelled, and he started to drag Sam towards the door. But everything seemed to slow to stop motion as the pulse of the light from the staff accelerated. The room was an over-exposed photograph, frozen and bled of color.

Sam reached for Dean, felt his hand close in his brother’s jacket, and then reality fuzzed out to static.

***

Arlene had really done a great job with the twins, Samuel thought.

It was Friday evening, and Sam and Dean Campbell were leading the compound’s nightly KP duty. Dean was clearing the family-style dishes with Jamal and Susan while Sam and Nidhi swept and mopped. The group worked with the efficiency of soldiers but the air was filled with the banter of teenagers. Samuel smiled as he watched from his desk near the door. He stretched his bum leg (black dog, summer of 2019, nearly ten years ago now) and raised his beer.

Sam and Dean at sixteen were as strong and sharp as could be asked for. Now that Sam had finally sprouted up, they traded off winning the compound’s Tuesday/Thursday “under 18” hand-to-hand bouts. It was only a matter of months before Dean could outshoot his Aunt Gwen, much to her repeatedly aired displeasure. Sam was nearly as good a shot, and Samuel knew from their shared Saturday library shift that Sam had a hell of a head for research.

None of this came as a surprise, of course, nor did Dean’s love of machine work (he’d patched up the generator three times already this year) or Sam’s proclivity for computers (he’d presided over the Campbell network since he and Dean were about eight).

No, where Arlene—and Samuel himself, credit where credit was due—had really excelled was in instilling commitment to the cause. Set those boys loose on an unsuspecting town, and between Dean’s swaggering charm and Sam’s flawless persuasion skills, within a month they had all the best kids lining up for fostering. Everyone was a part of the family business, or wanted to be, once they met those boys. There was talk of Christian and Arlene opening a fourth compound next season.

The job had to be done. There was no one left _but_ hunters to stem the flow of monsters and ghosts and ghouls that still leaked from Purgatory, even these fifteen years later. The angels and demons were gone. Crowley and Castiel had cracked open Purgatory and then—glutted with all the souls they could absorb—lumbered away to fight it out on their home turfs. Samuel didn’t even know who won.  Maybe death brought all humans harps and feathers, now. Or brimstone and flames.  Well, death would have to wait for the Campbells. 

Samuel’s only regret was that the boys had grown up again without Mary. It was a comfort to know that when she did escape from Purgatory—and she would, she _would,_ even if he had to send in their fifth contingent in as many years—he’d be able to introduce her to two of the best Campbells the line had produced.

And if she wanted to raise them herself? Samuel shifted his grip on his walking staff and took a sip of Martha’s best homebrew. It could be arranged.

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to harrigan and Rheanna for the crucial betas!  
> Original prompt: Dean is de-aged in early season 6 and left in the care of Grandpa Samuel (who wouldn't mind selling him if it means he can get his daughter back) and Robo-Sam. He's kind of screwed.


End file.
